Chemical Burns
by GrissomsOverture
Summary: Chemicals are the source of all our problems. My post 'Playing With Fire' fic


TITLE: Chemical Burns  
  
Author: GrissomsOverture  
  
Description: 'Without Grissom and chemicals and the Nodes of Ranvier, my life would be much simpler, much better.' My obligatory post "Playing with Fire" fic; my take on what happened-or should have happened. G/S; G/S POV.  
  
R&R: PLEASE!  
  
Spoilers: I reference PwF and the beginning of ItB. I think that's it. I hope I don't spoil anything for anyone. If I do, you can hurt me, promise. There's a hinted back-story, but that's all me.  
  
DISCLAIMERS: If I owned Grissom, I promise you I'd be the happiest woman in the world. Unfortunately, I don't. I also don't own "CSI" or anything else that belongs to the brilliant world of Jerry Bruckheimer.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ Sara: "You got a minute?"  
  
Gil: "I was just leaving."  
  
Sara: "Yeah, the schedule says you're off tonight."  
  
Gil: "Yes, I am."  
  
Sara: "Me, too."  
  
Gil: "You should be on paid leave."  
  
Sara: (smiling) "I'm fine."  
  
Gil: "You were fortunate, and I'm not talking about the explosion."  
  
Sara: "You talked to Brass?"  
  
Gil: "And Nick."  
  
Sara: "They got the guy."  
  
Gil: "Is that all you have to say?"  
  
Sara: "Would you like to have dinner with me?"  
  
Gil: (pause) "No."  
  
Sara: "Why not? Let's...let's have dinner. Let's see what happens."  
  
Gil: "Sara.(sighs) I don't know what to do about. this."  
  
Sara: "I do. You know, by the time you figure it out, it really could be too late."  
  
~Part One: Sara~ He let me walk away. I knew he would, of course. Logically. Logic told me that he wouldn't stop me, wouldn't come after me. Logic told me he'd let me walk away. But, I'm a female, and as illogical as it is, my heart is inclined to hope, when it comes to things like this, whether I want it to or not.  
  
Some days, I hate my heart.  
  
Hate it for letting me chase this so far. Would life be easier if I didn't have a heart? Well, no; I may as well not have a brain, because logic tells me that it isn't my actual heart that gives me these feelings; logic tells me that my heart only pumps my blood, gives me life. Logic tells me that it's actually the brain that gives me these emotions, these feelings; chemicals and nerve impulses firing at synapses; electricity soaring along the Nodes of Ranvier, triggering the sensations, sending the thoughts, binding the chemicals, making me feel like a fool, giving me hope. Grissom. Without Grissom and chemicals and the Nodes of Ranvier, my life would be much simpler, much better.  
  
I walk across the parking lot, my ears still straining for his footsteps. Hope. Damn hope. Stop it!... Emotions are only chemicals, Sara. Emotions are only chemicals. I climb in, start the Tahoe. My bandaged hand awkwardly grips the steering wheel.  
  
Chemicals were the source of the problem, again, how I hurt my hand. Without chemicals, the lab wouldn't have blown up literally in my face. Greg would be OK, the lab would be OK, I'd be OK. And without the chemicals that caused the impulsive emotions that made me chase after Grissom in the first place, I would never have been right by the lab, for it to blow up in my face.  
  
Without chemicals, I wouldn't be here in Vegas, in the first place. If I hadn't spent so much time playing with chemicals in labs, through high school and Harvard, if I hadn't wanted to become a scientist. If I hadn't met the kind Dr. Grissom, the older, brilliant forensic science seminar speaker with the beautiful blue eyes, triggering the chemicals that kicked my hormones into overdrive and I wouldn't have promised myself right then and there that I'd follow him, anywhere, just so I could see his eyes. Hormones, chemicals, hope. Damn chemicals.  
  
The rush of adrenaline I got pulling my gun on the vic-that felt good. I liked those chemicals. Maybe, if I hadn't loved playing in the science labs, hadn't loved blue litmus paper and beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks; hadn't loved sulfur and formaldehyde and playing with fire-maybe I'd be a cop. But, guided by my own chemicals, I let Dr. Grissom talk to me and show me that the real heroes are the analysts behind the cops on the street. He showed me that there was a world where I belonged-one where I could play with chemicals and fire and still serve the greater good; I could be a hero, help the heroes. I let his words stir a passion in me for a new career; the chemicals building in my brain, the excitement for the world of crime scene investigation; and a deeper, growing attraction to those sea blue eyes. I would follow him anywhere. The chemicals were binding, the neurons firing at the synapses, my brain a whirlwind of neurotransmitters and electricity and activity, branding this knowledge onto my brain, as I listened to him speak, his voice rich, strong hands moving with much excited gesticulation.  
  
And here I am. My hand hurts as I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex. I park the car, walk to my building, walk to my apartment. I walk inside, set down my things. I walk to my phone, hit speed dial, order a small veggie pizza. I'm still a recluse. Because I followed him, because of the chemicals. I curl up on my couch, wait for my food, and close my eyes. I haven't turned many lights on. I can imagine my brain, my chemicals. I can see the smooth, uninterrupted, perfectly designed flow. The neuroscience of my decisions. Dopamine, acetylcholine A, the Nodes of Ranvier. The brain is a work of wonder, thriving on chemicals. The chemical's I've let guide me, all my life. But really, do I have a choice? Do any of us? I've just fallen into the same trap that every female before me has. I'm a victim of my chemicals. I'm guided by my neurotransmitters.  
  
Grissom said no. He doesn't know what to do about 'this', about us. I tried to lead; he doesn't want to lead. He's been warned. Maybe I need to get away from chemicals for awhile. From Grissom.  
  
~ ~Part Two: Grissom~ She walked away, and I turned off my office light. I stepped from the door frame, from my office, and I stood in the pitch-black and watched her outline as she leaves, frozen, Dr. Roth's Rolodex card in my hand. Did I follow her? No. Did I want to? I don't know. I don't remember anything about that moment but watching her. I wasn't feeling anything. I was numb.  
  
She doesn't give up. Sara Sidle never gives up. Even on me. Why? I almost wish she would.  
  
I remember when I went to Harvard to do that seminar. I was wandering around the science department, and I went into the chemistry lab. I was so impressed with the quality of the Harvard labs. I felt so at home there, among the walls lined with flasks and graduated cylinders, the bottles of chemicals. I ran my hands along one of the huge lab tables, fingering a Bunsen burner, wishing for a moment that I could live there. The air was thick with the smell of learning, of science, of experimentation. Chemicals. God, I love chemicals. Call me a nerd, I don't care. This is who I am. Everything I had ever wanted to be was represented in that lab.  
  
I walked to the back of the long room, and I realized I was not alone. A tall, thin girl with long brown hair stood under the flame hood, bent pensively over her work. She was so engrossed, she didn't hear me. I liked the sight of her, so half held my breath, not wanting to disturb her. My heart thudded a little harder in my chest than it should have. She had a lovely form and figure for as tall and thin as she was, and I appreciated it. Even beneath the lab coat, I could see her slight curves, enticing me. The scent of Bunsen burner gas and six molar MgHO tickled my nose. God, I love chemicals.  
  
I watched her work from behind. With long, expert fingers, she dipped a pipet into a black bottle labeled NaO, drew up the clear liquid, and added it to something I couldn't view. She stood and waited for the reaction, and I did too, wordlessly. I wondered how old she was, what her name was, where she grew up. Suddenly, in a snap second, the experiment she was working on burst into a flash of flames. I heard her yell, "Shit!", over the boom, and I jumped and rushed to her side. In the panic of the moment, she didn't question who I was, just accepted I was there. I saw a flash of a question in the soft brown eyes behind the huge lab goggles, but we simply worked together and put the fire out.  
  
I helped her clean up, and together we determined that the last lab assistant or TA who has used the lab must have made the mistake of putting acetylene in the sodium oxide container, making what should have been a simple combination reaction (which Sara was setting up for a professor) into a disaster.  
  
Sort of like Sara and I. Something that should be so simple, made complex by the people involved. Chemicals.  
  
When I was certain she was long gone from the parking lot and on her way home, I left the lab, Rolodex card in my hand. I sat in my Tahoe and made a call to Dr. Roth's office; I left a message on her voice mail. I started the car, pulled out of the parking lot.  
  
But I don't turn for home. Impulsively, I turn the other direction and head for Sara's place. I don't know why. I feel discombobulated, out of touch, out of place. I DO know what to do about 'this', but I can't. I know what I want to do to Sara, with Sara, for Sara. But I'm an old man. I have to have surgery for my hearing. And there is a block on my heart. Well, not my 'heart'; any scientist knows that the notion of the heart being the center of emotions is nonsense. My predecessors in science thought at one time that the stomach was the center of emotion, the seat of the soul; there was another time when they considered it the uterus, for women. Today, we know better. I know that these things I feel when I see Sara are not caused by any organ or muscle. They are caused by chemicals, neuroscience, neurons firing at synapses, jumping with electricity, a light show in my head that no one can see, neurotransmitters knocking on and opening doors incredibly fast, setting up my fate before I even have a chance. My attraction, my affection for this girl is programmed into my brain. It has been since I helped her put out that chemical fire at Harvard. On that day, I hadn't even bothered to introduce myself, or to ask her name; I'd just accepted her thanks and practically ran from the room when the mess was clean and she was safe. I felt the chemicals trying to destroy me, and I knew, she was a student, I had to get out of there before I was in too deep.  
  
Then I saw her in the third row at my seminar that night, the surprise on her face mirroring my own, and I was gone. The chemicals had done their job. It was done.  
  
I knock on her apartment door, softly. It swings open, and there she is, a ten-dollar bill in her hand. Her eyes go as wide as saucers. "Um.you're not the pizza guy." "No." I smile. She's so charming, and unassuming.Yes, I know what I want to do about this. She eyes me wearily. "What do you want, Grissom? Why are you here?"  
  
I don't think. I let the chemicals guide me. I lean forward and kiss her, gently at first, letting it deepen a little as she gets over the surprise, drops her money, and let the chemicals take her away, as well. We don't touch, anything but our lips; feeling the chemicals of attraction take over. My hand trembles. I want to touch her hair, hold her, but I don't want to make it any more personal. I just need to do this. I stop it before I can lose my self completely in her. Her face is unreadable, her breathe shaky. She is silent. I touch her bandaged hand. "Sara, I just wanted to say.I didn't get a chance to tell you. I'm really glad you're OK."  
  
She looks at me in disbelief. I can't believe what I've done, either.I silently beg her to forgive me for kissing her and then immediately pretending that nothing has happened. Maybe it was wrong, but I wanted to feel her lips, and this is what I do. This is a normal step for us, in this odd dance.  
  
She looks stunned, still. Her eyes are dark and unreadable. "Thanks." Thank God, she doesn't say anything else. I don't have to face this today. I can avoid the chemicals now. Maybe. I nod, and turn around, begin walking away. I've taken exactly five steps before she calls out, "Wait! Wait a minute. You're going to walk away, pretend nothing ever happened?"  
  
Shit. I should have known I wouldn't get off that easy. Sara, please understand!... I want to tell her things. But I can't, today, when so much has gone one. I pray that she'll understand on some level. Today, at this moment, I just needed to feel her. I don't know why I came, I don't know why.I don't know anything. I stop, turn. "Sara. Some day, I'll talk about this. But I can't right now. Please.understand." A pizza delivery man brushes by me, and I take that as my cue to run, once again. ~  
  
~~Part Three~ ~Sara; I pay the delivery man in a daze, and when he is gone, so is Grissom. I want to murder him, make love to him, and never see him again, all at once.  
  
I ate half my pizza, not really tasting it. He kissed me. The bastard had the audacity to kiss me, and walk away. He threw me a bone, satiated my chemicals, and walked away. Why the hell?... What was he thinking?... Just, WHY? It makes no sense.  
  
Exhausted emotionally, physically and spiritually, I fell asleep in front of the TV.  
  
My beeper woke me up the next day after a long, fitful sleep full of darkness and confusing dreams. I had hoped that morning would bring some clarity, but I still don't know whether to love or hate the man.  
  
~ I avoid Grissom at all costs for the next few days; an easy thing to do, since he seems to be avoiding me, as well. I can't remember the last time he'd assigned me to a case with him. Every time I do see him, I avoid his gaze. I didn't even want to think about him.  
  
Like a lightening bolt crashing down to change my plans and screw with my life, the bank was robbed, Detective Lockwood was killed, and we are all called in. By Grissom. Which meant I had to share breathing space with him. I was not happy. But I arrived at the scene, determined to focus on my work, on Lockwood and bringing his killers to justice.  
  
But, again, the chemicals were against me. The moment I see Grissom, from the back, I feel anger and resentment rise up inside me. I know it shows on my face, and I'm glad that the team is all focused on Grissom, waiting for an assignment, and not on me.  
  
And then, he tells me to come with him. I have to work with him. Like nothing ever happened. He looks pained, distracted. Something's off. But I won't talk to him about personal things. Right now, I have to be Sara the co.-worker, Sara the scientist, Sara who works with chemicals but doesn't have any guiding her actions, thoughts and emotions. Not Sara the would-be lover, Sara the possible soul-mate, Sara who wants to give into the wonderful chemicals that bring the pleasure and pain of love.  
  
But what can I do? I follow him. I follow him to the room with the exploded safety deposit boxes. He wants me there. And I follow him, because that's what I do. I follow him, as always, down rivers of chemicals that lead nowhere. 


End file.
